“They all do it,” he exclaimed, “myself excepted.” He was not quite twenty-three. “But tell me more. She is English. That is good, very good. An English wife is very good indeed. And she is rich?”

“Immensely rich.”

“Blonde or dark?”

“Blonde.”

“Is it possible!”

“It pleases me very much,” said Gino simply. “If you remember, I always desired a blonde.” Three or four men had collected, and were listening.

“We all desire one,” said Spiridione. “But you, Gino, deserve your good fortune, for you are a good son, a brave man, and a true friend, and from the very first moment I saw you I wished you well.”

“No compliments, I beg,” said Gino, standing with his hands crossed on his chest and a smile of pleasure on his face.

Spiridione addressed the other men, none of whom he had ever seen before. “Is it not true? Does not he deserve this wealthy blonde?”

“He does deserve her,” said all the men.

It is a marvellous land, where you love it or hate it.

There were no letters, and of course they sat down at the Caffe Garibaldi, by the Collegiate Church—quite a good caffe that for so small a city. There were marble-topped tables, and pillars terra-cotta below and gold above, and on the ceiling was a fresco of the battle of Solferino. One could not have desired a prettier room. They had vermouth and little cakes with sugar on the top, which they chose gravely at the counter, pinching them first to be sure they were fresh. And though vermouth is barely alcoholic, Spiridione drenched his with soda-water to be sure that it should not get into his head.

They were in high spirits, and elaborate compliments alternated curiously with gentle horseplay. But soon they put up their legs on a pair of chairs and began to smoke.

“Tell me,” said Spiridione—“I forgot to ask—is she young?”

“Thirty-three.”

“Ah, well, we cannot have everything.”

“But you would be surprised. Had she told me twenty-eight, I should not have disbelieved her.”

“Is she SIMPATICA?” (Nothing will translate that word.)

Gino dabbed at the sugar and said after a silence, “Sufficiently so.”

“It is a most important thing.”

“She is rich, she is generous, she is affable, she addresses her inferiors without haughtiness.”

There was another silence. “It is not sufficient,” said the other. “One does not define it thus.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Last month a German was smuggling cigars. The custom-house was dark. Yet I refused because I did not like him. The gifts of such men do not bring happiness. NON ERA SIMPATICO. He paid for every one, and the fine for deception besides.”

“Do you gain much beyond your pay?” asked Gino, diverted for an instant.

“I do not accept small sums now. It is not worth the risk. But the German was another matter. But listen, my Gino, for I am older than you and more full of experience. The person who understands us at first sight, who never irritates us, who never bores, to whom we can pour forth every thought and wish, not only in speech but in silence—that is what I mean by SIMPATICO.”

“There are such men, I know,” said Gino. “And I have heard it said of children. But where will you find such a woman?”

“That is true. Here you are wiser than I. SONO POCO SIMPATICHE LE DONNE. And the time we waste over them is much.” He sighed dolefully, as if he found the nobility of his sex a burden.

“One I have seen who may be so. She spoke very little, but she was a young lady—different to most. She, too, was English, the companion of my wife here. But Fra Filippo, the brother-in-law, took her back with him. I saw them start. He was very angry.”

Then he spoke of his exciting and secret marriage, and they made fun of the unfortunate Philip, who had travelled over Europe to stop it.

“I regret though,” said Gino, when they had finished laughing, “that I toppled him on to the bed. A great tall man! And when I am really amused I am often impolite.”

“You will never see him again,” said Spiridione, who carried plenty of philosophy about him. “And by now the scene will have passed from his mind.”

“It sometimes happens that such things are recollected longest. I shall never see him again, of course; but it is no benefit to me that he should wish me ill. And even if he has forgotten, I am still sorry that I toppled him on to the bed.”

So their talk continued, at one moment full of childishness and tender wisdom, the next moment scandalously gross. The shadows of the terra-cotta pillars lengthened, and tourists, flying through the Palazzo Pubblico opposite, could observe how the Italians wasted time.

The sight of tourists reminded Gino of something he might say. “I want to consult you since you are so kind as to take an interest in my affairs. My wife wishes to take solitary walks.”

Spiridione was shocked.

“But I have forbidden her.”

“Naturally.”

“She does not yet understand. She asked me to accompany her sometimes—to walk without object! You know, she would like me to be with her all day.”

“I see. I see.” He knitted his brows and tried to think how he could help his friend. “She needs employment. Is she a Catholic?”

“No.”

“That is a pity. She must be persuaded. It will be a great solace to her when she is alone.”

“I am a Catholic, but of course I never go to church.”

“Of course not. Still, you might take her at first. That is what my brother has done with his wife at Bologna and he has joined the Free Thinkers. He took her once or twice himself, and now she has acquired the habit and continues to go without him.”

“Most excellent advice, and I thank you for it. But she wishes to give tea-parties—men and women together whom she has never seen.”

“Oh, the English! they are always thinking of tea. They carry it by the kilogramme in their trunks, and they are so clumsy that they always pack it at the top. But it is absurd!”

“What am I to do about it?”

“Do nothing. Or ask me!”

“Come!” cried Gino, springing up. “She will be quite pleased.”

The dashing young fellow coloured crimson. “Of course I was only joking.”

“I know. But she wants me to take my friends. Come now! Waiter!”

“If I do come,” cried the other, “and take tea with you, this bill must be my affair.”

“Certainly not; you are in my country!”

A long argument ensued, in which the waiter took part, suggesting various solutions. At last Gino triumphed. The bill came to eightpence-halfpenny, and a halfpenny for the waiter brought it up to ninepence. Then there was a shower of gratitude on one side and of deprecation on the other, and when courtesies were at their height they suddenly linked arms and swung down the street, tickling each other with lemonade straws as they went.

Lilia was delighted to see them, and became more animated than Gino had known her for a long time. The tea tasted of chopped hay, and they asked to be allowed to drink it out of a wine-glass, and refused milk; but, as she repeatedly observed, this was something like. Spiridione's manners were very agreeable. He kissed her hand on introduction, and as his profession had taught him a little English, conversation did not flag.

“Do you like music?” she asked.

“Passionately,” he replied. “I have not studied scientific music, but the music of the heart, yes.”

So she played on the humming piano very badly, and he sang, not so badly. Gino got out a guitar and sang too, sitting out on the loggia. It was a most agreeable visit.

Gino said he would just walk his friend back to his lodgings. As they went he said, without the least trace of malice or satire in his voice, “I think you are quite right. I shall not bring people to the house any more. I do not see why an English wife should be treated differently. This is Italy.”

“You are very wise,” exclaimed the other; “very wise indeed. The more precious a possession the more carefully it should be guarded.”